


A Magnificent Obsession

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universes, M/M, None - Freeform, crossovers, other pairing - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 06:50:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young Blair Sandburg travels the old west, recording the truth about the native 'savages.' Then he arrives at Four Corners and gets caught in the middle of a vendetta and find something he'd only heard of from his mentor Burton: A real, live sentinel</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Magnificent Obsession

## A Magnificent Obsession

by Lianne

Author's website:  <http://www.squidge.org/~lianne>

Not mine. Boo hoo.

This was written for one of the letter auctions. I offered to write a crossover, and Hawk asked for a Magnificent 7 crossover

Originally published in Past, Present and Future Sense from Blackfly Press

* * *

Blair Sandburg turned the next page in his book, going over the notes he had made during his time with the Lakota. The shaman who'd shared his home with Blair had been surprisingly forthcoming with tales of his people and their beliefs, and Blair was determined to portray them in the best possible light in the book he was writing about the various tribes of savages that lived on the continent. 

In fact, after the last few months he was no longer sure that he _could_ refer to them as savages. When he'd announced his decision to come back to his homeland and set down in words the way of life of the lands first people, his fellow students at Oxford had been scathing in their amusement. Most of them seemed to feel that a proper anthropologist should be interesting in only the African continent, and especially Egypt. While Blair found ancient Egypt equally fascinating, he'd decided to take the route less traveled. 

He'd been encouraged in this by his colleague -- although he blushed to refer to himself in that way -- Richard Burton. They'd met during a lecture circuit that the wellrespected scholar had been conducting soon after he'd cofounded the Anthropological Society of London, and they'd continued to correspond over the years. Blair had been influenced in large part by Burton's letters of his travels in South America while he finished recovering from illnesses that made it impossible to continue the duties of his consular appointment to Brazil. The letters had fired his imagination, and he'd resolved to return to the United States. 

His mother had sent him to England to continue his studies shortly before the outbreak of the war between the states. He'd just turned twenty, and her death a year later had left him with little ambition to return. It was only his scholarly pursuits that had brought him back to the land of his birth, nearly a decade after he had left. 

The stagecoach driver pounded on the roof, calling through the small opening. "Four Corners in two miles, sir!" 

"Thank you!" Blair called back, unsure that the man would have heard him over the pounding of horse hooves and the creak of the vehicle. He closed his notebook and slipped it into the large satchel that contained all his notes and books. A chest tied to the back of the coach contained all of the clothing that he carried with him. Most of his belongings were stored in the small house back in Boston that he had inherited from his mother on her death. 

Four Corners was the last stop on the Stagecoach route before it turned around for the return trip, so Blair had the entire space to himself. As a result, he'd been able to loosen his coat and shirt, allowing the breeze to cool him. He now straightened his clothing, beating as much of the trail dust as he could from the fabrics. 

Four Corners was not exactly where he'd intended to go, but the shaman had been quite insistent that this was where he was meant to go next. The elderly man had been very kind to him, as well as a fount of information, so Blair had acquiesced to man's request that he travel here. Besides, there were several tribes in the area, and he hoped he would have as much luck with them. 

The stagecoach finally came to a stop outside of the small town's saloon. Blair climbed down and stood swaying for a moment, adjusting to being on solid -- and unmoving -- ground again. He looked up and down the main street curiously, taking in the town and its inhabitants, trying to get a feel for the ambiance of the rough town. It was a far cry from the well-bred elegance of Boston, where he'd grown up, or the old-world sophistication of England, where he'd studied. Rough-made buildings ran down both sides of what appeared to be the only street in Four Corners. They looked to house mostly businesses, such as the saloon, the bank, the general store and the newspaper. While there were no doubt residences on the upper floors, most of the area residences no doubt lived on farms and ranches in the lands surrounding the small town. 

Blair shouldered his satchel and picked up his clothes chest. There were several options to be considered. He needed to find a place to stay while he was in the area, and he needed to find someone to hire as a guide to the area. Preferably someone who already knew the local Indians and was on good terms with them. 

One option was to go into the saloon and inquire there, but he was not sure that would be wise. The type of men who congregated in saloons were not always inclined to the truth, and he had no desire to find someone who claimed to be an appropriate guide but who only intended to rob him. 

Better was to find someone respected who could direct him, which would mean inquiring either at the sheriff's office or the newspaper. Having heard stories of small towns with sheriffs who were tyrants, based solely on their claims of being able to defend the inhabitants from roving gangs of outlaws. 

While Blair had heard no such tales attached to Four Corners, he decided to place inquiring of the sheriff to second on his list. Hefting his chest, he headed for the office of the town newspaper. 

The town newspaper was housed in a building no different from the others that lined the street. The wood clapboards were weathered to a silvery gray by sun and wind and dust. The faded sign above the door proclaimed it home to The Clarion News. Blair stepped up onto the <deck> in front of the building and through the door. 

Inside, the dim light seemed to drop the temperature to something a little more human than the summer heat outside. A small bell affixed to the door tinkled, announcing his presence, and a tall, blonde woman stepped out of the back room. 

"Can I help you?" she asked in a low, serious voice. Her blue eyes ran over him, appraising him in a glance. He waited until her expression lightened, obviously having decided that he was not a threat. 

"Could I speak to the publisher?" he asked, setting down his chest. A wry smile flashed across her face briefly. 

"I _am_ the publisher, mister..." She waited expectantly. 

"Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am," Blair said, suddenly remembering his manners. He pulled off his hat and brushed his hand off against his not-much-cleaner pant-leg before offering it to the woman. "Blair Sandburg." 

"Mary Travis," the woman responded, taking his hand in a surprisingly firm handshake. "So what brings you to Four Corners?" 

"I'm an anthropologist," he told her, squirming a little under her direct gaze. There was something about her that reminded him of his mother; independent, strong and nononsense. "I've been spending time with as many of the native tribes as I can, trying to learn about their ways before exposure to white men changes them." 

Again the woman stared at him as if trying to tell if he were being honest. "So what can I do for you?" 

"I'm looking to hire someone. This part of the country isn't always safe to travel alone. I was hoping to find someone who is on friendly terms with the tribes in this area and is willing to be a guide for me." 

"And a bodyguard as well," she said with a smile. "Very wise, Mister Sandburg. While the locals are not likely to make trouble for you, the cattle drives do come through here, and when they get some liquor in them, they usually end up looking for a fight." 

"I can defend myself against most men, ma'am," Blair said pointedly. "However," he added, "against a _gang_ of men is a different matter. Do you know of anyone who could help me?" 

"Actually, I do. But he lives outside of town. Come with me and we'll see about sending someone out to him with a message." 

The woman went into the back room, and Blair heard he speak softly for a moment, and a child's voice answered her. She came back out, closing the door behind her. She also locked the paper's door as they left. 

"Thank you for helping me, Miss Travis," Blair said as they headed for the saloon he'd bypassed earlier. 

"It's Mrs.," she said. "I'm a widow." 

"I'm sorry," he said, knowing that the expression of sympathy would no doubt sound trite. 

"Don't worry. It's been a while. I still miss him daily, but I carry on. I have a son to raise and a newspaper to run." 

Blair nodded. Mary Travis was reminding him more and more of his own mother, Naomi, all the time. Naomi Sandburg had been born into a wealthy family, but when she'd become pregnant out of wedlock, and worse, had refused to name the father, she'd been disowned by her family. A sympathetic aunt had given her funds to help her, and she'd parlayed that into a successful dress-making business. 

In time, her family had softened, welcoming both her and her son back into the fold, but she'd never revealed who had fathered her child, and had remained independent up until her death. 

Suddenly, Mrs. Travis veered off her course. Puzzled, Blair followed her towards the general store. 

"Mister Ellison!" she called out as she crossed the street. In front of the store, a man was loading packages onto the back of a mule. He looked up as they approached, and Blair felt his breath catch. This Ellison was one of the handsomest men he'd ever seen. The man's hair was thin and cut to a length far shorter than was common, but it served only to emphasize the fine shape of his skull and his chiseled features. He was several inches taller than Blair, and more than a few pounds heavier, although the extra weight appeared to all be muscle. 

"Mrs. Travis," he replied in a reserved tone. His voice was quite, but full of strength, and Blair gulped. This man was charismatic in a way he'd never met before. 

"Mister Ellison, this is Mister Blair Sandburg. He's looking to hire a guide who can introduce him to the local tribes." 

Ellison turned his piercing gaze on Blair, and Blair had to suppress a shiver. "Why?" he asked bluntly, not bothering to hide his suspicion. 

"Because I want to learn about them." 

Ellison crossed his arms over his chest, not looking impressed by the response. "And why would an Easterner want to bother learning about the First People?" he asked. 

Blair considered his answer carefully. Ellison did not seem like the sort of man to accept generalities. "I study Anthropology, and I've seen the accounts of how many peoples are changed beyond recognition by contact with European society. I want to make sure that what was is not lost." 

A spasm of what was almost pain crossed the other man's face, and Mary Travis winced. It was a harsh thing to say, but it was the truth. White man had a tendency to force their ways onto more primitive peoples, erasing the cultures they found by imposing their own. It had already happened across Africa and large parts of North and South America. Even this far west, Indians were being forced to either give up their way of life or move into tiny reservations that could barely support them. 

"So you intend to produce lurid tales of the lifestyles of savage peoples for the readers of penny-dreadfuls?" The man's tone was bitingly sarcastic. It might have been a jest, but Blair wasn't sure. Ellison's expression hadn't changed, and he didn't know the man well enough to judge. 

"No," he said, deciding to treat the question as serious. "I intend to write an accurate account of their lives and society." He dropped his baggage and pulled a leather-bound notebook from his bag. He held it out to the man. "These are my notes from the time I spent with the Lakota. Read it, and decide for yourself if I will be fair and impartial in my accounting." 

For a moment his face heated as he realized that he didn't know if Ellison could read. In this part of the country, illiteracy was not uncommon. But Ellison took the volume and started flipping through it. Every so often he would pause and read an entire passage, then start flipping again. 

Finally, he closed the volume and held it out to Blair. Blair took it and waited for the verdict. 

"Do you have a horse?" 

All the breath rushed from his lungs as Ellison's expression softened slightly. "I'm afraid not," he replied apologetically. 

Ellison just nodded. "I hope you're willing to walk, then." 

Blair couldn't stop his grin from bursting forth. "Across the state, if need be." 

"I doubt that will be necessary," Ellison said, his lips curling into a small smile. It was the first real expression that Blair had seen on the man's face. The effect was staggering, and Blair caught his breath. The sun-weathered skin around the man's eyes crinkled, and his eyes seemed to sparkle. If he'd been handsome before, he was beautiful now. 

"So," he finally said, shaking himself out of his contemplation of the man and turning to Mrs. Travis, "is there someplace where I can rent a room during my stay?" 

"That won't be necessary," Ellison said quickly. "I have a spare bunk you can use. Besides, my cabin is between town and the tribe's territory. You'll have a shorter distance to walk, and I wouldn't have to travel the extra distance between home and town more than I have to." 

For a moment, Blair wondered if that would be a wise move. He had money to pay for a room, and he didn't know that Ellison wouldn't rob him or worse when the got him away from town. Then he relaxed again, telling himself that Mrs. Travis would not have recommended the man as a guide if he were of a criminal bent. 

"Thank you," he finally said. "I would appreciate that, Mister Ellison." 

Again, that small but brilliant smile appeared on the man's face. "Call me Jim," he said. 

"I can pay you for room and board as well," Blair offered. Ellison... _Jim_ shook his head. 

"That won't be necessary. I just stocked up on supplies, so how 'bout when you leave, you stock me up again?" 

Blair nodded. "Sounds fair," he said. He was also planning on buying more. Jim Ellison was looking to be far better than he could have hoped to find. 

Jim picked up his bags and started adding them to his purchases on the back of his mule. Blair thought of offering to help, but realized that his 'help' would probably be more of a hindrance. Instead, he stood back and waited. 

The sound of horses coming down the street caught his attention and he turned to see a group of seven men coming down the middle of the street. They didn't slow down, and people got out of their way quickly, recognizing danger when they saw it. The men were filthy, as if they'd been on the trail for a long time. He wondered where they'd come from. He knew enough about this area to know that the cattle drives wouldn't be coming through for a month. 

The group stopped outside the saloon, almost dead center in the town, and the lead rider stood up in his stirrups. 

"Where is Vin Tanner?!" he hollered, loud enough for everyone to hear. Blair flinched at the obvious hatred in the man's voice. Jim moved to stand next to him, and Blair could feel the tension in the man's stance. 

"Who wants to know?" a young man said, coming out of the sheriff's office. He looked young for the job, years younger than Blair, and he wore his sheriff's badge proudly, gleaming in the sunlight, where many men wore theirs hidden to keep from being a target. 

"Garrett Kincaid," the man said, and Blair could almost see the tension levels of the locals go up. "Tanner killed my brother, and it's time for him to pay the price." 

Another man stepped forward, this one older and obviously more self-confident than the young sheriff. "Jess Kincaid was killed by Eli Joe," he said in a soft tone that was underlain with steel. 

Kincaid glared at the man. "You got proof of that?" he sneered. 

"Nope. Just Eli's own confession." 

"And where is he?" 

"Dead." 

"So you _say_ that a dead man killed my brother, not Tanner." 

"Yep." 

"And you expect me to believe that, just on your word?" 

"Uh-huh." 

Kincaid looked down at the ground, as though he were considering the statement. Then he laughed. 

"You've got guts, man, but no brains. Not if you seriously expect me to believe that pile of crap." 

Kincaid climbed down from his horse and stalked forward, stopping right in front of the other man. Blair was impressed by the fact that the man held his ground, showing nothing but complete relaxation. 

"Well, Mister..." Kincaid paused. 

"Larabee." 

"Mister Larabee, I don't believe you. Now, I suggest that you hand over Tanner, or I will take him. Anybody standing in my way better be prepared for the consequences, starting with you." 

The man's fingers flexed, and his hand drifted towards his gun. His friends, who were all still mounted, did the same. Glancing around, Blair noted several men on the street doing the same, and Mary Travis, who'd disappeared back into her newspaper office, had reappeared with a shotgun and a grim expression. 

"I'm afraid we can't do that, Mister Kincaid, so unless you're really willing to start a gunfight in foreign territory..." 

Kincaid snarled at that, almost like an animal, and drew his gun. He shoved the barrel of the gun up under Larabee's chin. "I suggest you tell me where that coward Tanner is, or I'm gonna blow yer stinkin' head off." 

Blair's heart jumped into his throat at that. Inside, a little voice was yelling at him to do something, but what could he do? He was one man, and while no weakling, he was significantly smaller than Kincaid and any one of his men. Blair glanced around, looking for someone else to act. 

Action came from an unexpected quarter. Larabee was standing there, still calm, and guns were coming out all around them, but no one was moving. Kincaid's men were starting to fidget. They looked a little nervous about taking on an entire town, but the town looked a little nervous about taking them on too. 

Everyone was nervous, except for Jim Ellison, it seemed. Quick and silent, he was next to the two men. Before Kincaid's men could call out a warning, Jim had grabbed his wrist and pulled it so that the gun was no longer pointed at anything but blue sky. 

"What the hell do you think..." Kincaid started to splutter at the other man. 

Jim just stood their silent. Kincaid started to go white, and his jaw dropped in an expression of pain. Jim was squeezing his wrist, Blair realized. After a long silent moment, Kincaid gasped, and his hand opened, almost involuntarily. Jim caught the gun before it could hit the ground, and tucked it into his belt for safe-keeping. 

Finally, he let go of the other man, and Kincaid stumbled back a few steps, flexing his hand and staring at Jim with an expression of pure hate. 

"I suggest you folks leave," Jim said in a deceptively quiet voice. "You have your answers. Now go." 

The guns were out in force now, Blair noticed. It seemed like people had just wanted someone _else_ to act first. Now that Ellison had, the rest were ready to follow his lead. 

Kincaid moved back to his horse, and swung up into the saddle awkwardly, with only one hand to use. He collected the reins, then turned to face Jim. "You made a big mistake today, Mister," he said angrily. "A very big mistake. One you'll pay for." 

Jim smiled slightly. This smile was as cold as the one earlier had been warm, and Blair shivered. Dangerous was a word that would describe the man well. 

"Go," was all he said. 

Kincaid wheeled his horse around and headed down the street at a gallop, not caring if there was anyone in his way. After a moment of stunned silence, the rest of his men did the same, and Blair breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn't the only one. 

"Thanks Jim," the other man, Larabee, said. 

Jim just nodded, and headed back to where his horses and Blair were waiting. He paused and looked at Blair for a moment, then pulled the confiscated gun from his belt and held it out, butt end towards Blair. Blair looked at it, puzzled. "What?" he asked. 

Jim gestured slightly with the weapon. "You don't seem to have one, so take it." 

Blair backed away, his hands up in the air. "No thanks," he said. "I don't like guns. I don't know how to use them either. I'd be more of a danger to friend than foe." 

As fast as he'd moved before, Jim grabbed Blair's right hand and pressed the gun into it. "This is dangerous territory," he said mildly. "You need a weapon, even if you never actually use it. I'll teach you." 

Blair stared at the gun as if it were a snake about to rear up and bite him. "I don't have anyplace to put it," he pointed out. 

Jim shook his head, smiling slightly. "I have a spare gunbelt at home. You can use it." Finally, he seemed to take pity, and took the gun from Blair. He tucked it into one of the bags on the back of the mule. 

"We better get going if we want to make it to my place before dark," he said, nodding towards the sun which was slowly going down in the west. It was still a good three hours until sunset, but at this moment, the last thing that Blair wanted was to be out in the wilderness after dark. 

"Okay," he said, then turned to Mary Travis. "Thanks for your help, Ma'am," he said, touching the rim of his hat. 

Mrs. Travis smiled at him. "No problem. I wouldn't mind hearing the stories of your travels at some point. Not to mention the chance to read your book when you publish." 

Blair smiled brightly. "One of the first copies. I promise," he said, then turned and followed Jim between two building and then out into the wilderness that was fancifully called the Wild West. 

* * *

An hour later, Blair was beginning to regret his bold claim that he would walk across the state if he had to. In fact, he almost felt as if he _had_ walked across the state. His feet were aching and somewhere along the line a stone had worked its way into his boot and was rubbing the skin above his ankle, but he didn't want to ask for a stop to remove it. He wanted to prove himself to Jim Ellison, he realized. It was foolish, but he wanted to impress the man, not come across as some city-slicker slumming in the wilds. 

Finally, as the sun was approaching the horizon and the sky was starting to turn a stunning range of colors, a small building built low to the ground appeared ahead of them. As they got closer, it turned into a small cabin with a leanto attached to it. 

They stopped outside, and Jim started pulling the bags off the back of his pack-horse. 

"Take those inside while I put the mule away, will you?" he asked, already leading the pack animal towards the lean-to, no doubt to give him a rub-down and meal before settling them down for the night. Blair nodded, and picked up the first few, starting with Ellison's supplies. His own bags would wait for last, he decided. 

He was carrying in the last few bags when Jim reappeared. "I'll get some water and firewood," he said briefly, before heading around back. Blair wondered if it was well-water or river-water. He could hear the faint sound of running water, so he figured there was a creak or something similar nearby. 

Inside the cabin it was primitive, but scrupulously neat. It was just a single room, with a large fireplace made with river-stone on one wall. The wall opposite, which would back against the rough stable he noticed, had a long table with two chairs against it, and one door set in it. Opening it curiously, he found that it led to a well-kept, if under-supplied, pantry. Other than that, there were two bunk style beds and a series of pegs that held the man's clothes, and a shelf that held a small collection of books. Blair scanned the titles, and was surprised to recognize a volume of the complete works of Shakespeare, several volumes of history and -- most amazing of all -- a copy of Charles Darwin's travelogue from his time in South America as well as his Origin of the Species. 

The last was especially a surprise. Ten years after its publication, Origin was still creating controversy with its theories about evolution. The church especially found the man's theories to be disturbing if not outright dangerous. 

Turning away from the shelf that was changing his image of Jim Ellison, Blair put his bags on the floor next to the bunk that didn't look like it was being used, and went to start putting the supplies into the pantry. 

The sun was starting to disappear below the horizon when Jim returned. He carefully set two buckets of water on the table, then went back outside to grab the wood. Blair watched, mildly impressed, as the man got a fire going in what seemed like no time at all. 

Deciding that he couldn't let Jim do _all_ of the work, Blair ducked back into the pantry and grabbed a pot and the ingredients for a simple stew and basic flatbread. In England, he'd learned to cook, more as self-defense against the sort of food that was given to students and because his landlady was a lousy cook. 

He wondered if he was being presumptive -- it was Jim's home and Jim's food after all -- but the other man just stood back and let him work. Once the stew was hung at the edge of the fire to cook, needing only the occasional stir to keep from burning, Blair stepped away with a sigh. He was a little surprised to find that there was no longer any light coming through the building's small windows and that Jim had produced an oil lamp from somewhere and lit it. It filled the cabin with a pleasant golden glow. 

With nothing to do but wait for dinner to finish cooking, the silence turned a little awkward. After a few minutes of trying to figure out what to do, what to say, Blair was saved when Jim took down one of his books and sat down near the lamp and started to read. Blair was a little put-off by being basically ignored, the shook his head. He was still too used to 'polite' society, where you didn't do that. The Lakota had been different, but he'd always filled the silence with questions. 

Opening his bag of books, Blair pulled out his journal and started reading through his notes on the Lakota, adding additional notes as he went. It was too soon to start actual writing, but he could already see the layout of the book he wanted to write. It would probably be received with hostility by those who wanted to portray the land's original people as blood-thirsty savages, but that didn't matter to him. The truth did. 

By the time dinner was ready to eat, the silence had become comfortable. It felt like the silence was not so much a lack of anything to say as a lack of need to say it. Jim had some flat-bread tucked away, and it went nicely with the stew which was heavier on vegetable than meat. 

Dinner was eaten in silence, then Jim banked the fire. "Best get a good night's sleep," he said to Blair, who by that point was yawning. Between the stagecoach trip and the long walk, Blair was more than willing to make an early evening of it. "We'll get an early start tomorrow," Jim added, start to pull of his outer-clothes. He waited patiently for Blair to do the same, and once Blair had climbed into the second bunk, he blew out the lantern flame. 

Blair lay in the dark, listening as the man settled down for the night. "Jim?" he called out hesitantly. 

"Yes?" was the warm reply from the darkness. 

"Thank you." 

There was a faint sound that might have been a chuckle. "You're welcome, professor." 

* * *

"Chris, are you _crazy_?!" 

Chris Larabee grinned at his lover, who was lounging in the bed lit only by a single candle which made him gleam like gold. "Only for you, lover," he replied. 

"Garrett Kincaid is _not_ someone you want to be crossing. He won't think twice about killing you." 

Chris dropped the last of his clothing into the pile on the table in the corner and sat down on the edge of the bed. He reached over to cup a stubbled face. "He's gone now. He'd have to be more than insane to stick around after facing Ellison. I'm just glad you weren't in town when he showed up." 

Vin Tanner turned his head slightly to rub his cheek against the palm, then sighed. "Don't be sure about that," he said sadly. "Garrett always had a reputation for being more than a little crazy. Plus, he and Jess were real tight as kids. Jess was a nice guy, though. Happy being a farmer. Garrett, on the other hand was always in trouble. People breathed a sigh of relief when he left to join the army." 

Chris frowned. "Didn't know you knew either Kincaid," he said. He knew that Eli Joe had framed Vin for murder to through him off the man's trail. He didn't know that Vin knew the man who'd been killed. 

Vin sighed. "I grew up with the Kincaid brothers as neighbors. Not in Tuscosa," he added. "Jess moved their to start his own farm. But I knew that soon as Garret found out his brother was dead, he'd come after me. That was part of why I wanted Eli alive; so's he could prove to Garrett that I didn't kill Jess." 

Chris winced at that. "Only I killed him first." 

Vin shook his head. "Nothing else you could have done," he said quickly. "Eli had a knife. He'd've killed me if you hadn't shot him." 

That made Chris shudder. "Don't even say that! Nobody's killing you while I got breath left in me." 

Vin leaned over and kissed him gently. "Goes both ways, cowboy," he said with a smile. "Besides, was your expression afterwards that told me all I needed to know about how you feel about me." 

Chris wrapped his arms around Vin and tumbled them both onto the bed. "Oh? And how is it I feel?" he said tauntingly. 

"Same as me, I certainly hope," Vin said, smiling up at him. "Love you," he whispered hoarsely. 

Chris grinned and kissed Vin, then pulled back. "Got it in one," he replied before renewing the kiss. He combed his fingers through Vin's wild mane of curls, enjoying the silky feel of them against his skin. 

Vin arched against him, and Chris felt the familiar fire start to burn inside. After so long of hiding his need for the other man, Vin was his. His to hold, his to fuck, his to... love. 

And no one was gonna take that from him. Not Eli Joe and his gang, not the law and certainly not Garrett Kincaid. If Kincaid wanted Vin, he would have to go through Chris Larabee first. 

* * *

Kincaid glared at the campfire, slowing working his aching hand. The interfering busy-body who'd taken his gun had almost broken his wrist in the process. Kincaid clenched his hand, then opened it slowly. It hurt like hell, but the hand worked. It certainly worked well enough for what he planned. 

"So, now what? We head for home?" 

Kincaid's lips drew back in a snarl as he turned to look at the man who spoke. "I ain't going anywhere until I've killed Vin Tanner," he said in a low, dangerous voice. 

The man was obviously too stupid to get the point. "But what about what Larabee said?" 

Kincaid let his hand drift to his gun; a replacement for the one that had been stolen from him. "I don't care what he said. Tanner's gonna die. Then Larabee is. And the bastard who dared lay hands on me," he added, flexing his sore hand again. 

"Are you nuts?" the lone dissenter cried out, ignoring the attempts of the men to either side of him to shush him. "If Tanner's a killer, then killing him is one thing. Killing the others will just bring the law down on _us_." 

"You don't have a choice," Kincaid said, quietly easing the gun from its holster. 

"Like hell I don't! I'm heading home in the morning. Anyone else wants to come, they're welcome." 

The man glanced around at the others, but no one would meet his eyes. Kincaid smiled coldly. "No one leaves unless I say they can," he said, then brought up the gun and fired once. 

The other man slumped to the ground, already dead. 

"Anyone else want to leave?" Kincaid asked sarcastically. No one met his eyes either. Satisfied, Kincaid slipped the gun back into the holster. "You and you," he said, pointing to two of his men. "Take that carrion away. Make sure you dump it far enough from camp that we don't get disturbed by the coyotes." 

The two men moved quickly to obey, and Kincaid smirked to himself. The fear around the campfire was so thick he could almost touch it, taste it, smell it. He felt almost drunk on it. 

But not so drunk that he would let his guard down. He would sleep with one eye open that night. 

And tomorrow... Tomorrow he would start planning his revenge. 

* * *

Blair woke the next morning to the sound of birdsong outside the cabin. Rolling over, he saw that the other bunk was empty, the blankets folded neatly and placed at the end of the thin mattress. Jim was no doubt off doing chores. 

He felt a little guilty at having overslept, but Blair knew he'd been exhausted from the stagecoach ride and the long hike the day before. Besides, Jim would have waken him if there was a need. 

Sitting up, Blair swung his legs around and stood up. Almost immediately, he sat back down again, biting back a tiny cry of pain. 

"What's wrong?" Jim said from the doorway. 

Blair looked down at his leg. The spot above his ankle where the rock had been rubbing was now a swollen, angry red, blood oozing from the center. Jim came over and lifted the foot, hissing a little at the sight. "You should have said something yesterday," he chided. 

Blair flushed a little, feeling guilty. "I didn't want to impose," he replied. 

Jim just gave him an exasperate look, like one you'd give a child who'd just done something foolish. "I've got some salve and bandages," he said, setting Blair's foot back down. "I'll wash out the wound for you. But it will be a few days before you can walk far enough to get to the Indian village." 

Blair groaned, but he knew the man was right. At the moment, he wasn't sure that he'd even be able to get his boot _on_ , let alone walk any distance. 

Jim mixed water and a bit of soap in a shallow pan, and used a clean rag to wash the area around the wound. Blair hissed, but held still, not wanting to look any more foolish than he already did. 

Jim Ellison, he was surprised to find, had a gentle touch. While the soap stung in the wound, Jim was able to clean it out without much discomfort. A sweet-smelling salve was carefully spread over it, and more clean rags were wrapped around Blair's leg; tight enough to not shift without being too tight. 

"This afternoon we'll unwrap that to breath," Jim said, putting away his supplies. "Then wrap it up again before bed." 

"You do that as well as a doctor," Blair said, standing up and finding that while he would limp, he could walk. Jim handed him a pair of moccasins that were too large for him, but were better than wandering around barefoot. 

"I learned in the army," was the terse reply. 

That caught Blair's attention. "You fought in the war?" he said. He almost asked which side, but caught himself. Out here a man's past was his own to reveal. Most considered personal questions an invasion of their privacy. 

Jim glanced at him, then away. "I fought for the north," he said, almost reluctantly. "My family is from the south, and they disowned me. I felt that slavery was wrong, and if I were to fight, it would be for a cause I believed in." 

Blair watched him carefully. "You were a leader," he said, more statement than question. 

"A captain," Jim confirmed. Then his face spasmed before settling into a blank mask. "At least, I was until my squad was killed in an ambush. I was the only survivor." 

"I'm sorry," Blair said, then sighed. It was such a weak thing to have said to a man who had lost family and comrades, but there was nothing that he could have said that was adequate. 

Jim shook his head. "There is nothing to be sorry for. After the war ended, I came west and I've built a new life here. I do not regret my choices, and wouldn't change them if I had the chance." 

A new life, but a lonely one, Blair guessed. Even with an extra bunk in the cabin, it was obvious that Jim had been alone for a while. Other than the books, there were few personal touches to the cabin: no pictures, painted or photographic, and no artwork. Just the man's clothing and equipment. 

"So what do you do around here anyway?" Blair asked, trying to change the subject. 

Jim shrugged. "A little of this, a little of that. I grow and raise enough to feed me. Occasionally I hire on with on of the cattle drives. Once in a while I act as a bounty hunter. I also train horses." 

"And hire out as guides to eastern scholars," Blair added with a smile. 

"And that," Jim said, also smiling. 

Breakfast was basic oatmeal and a heavy bread made on the spot and cooked over the fire. It was bland, but hot and filling. Afterwards, Jim pulled a gunbelt from a peg next to the door and fastened it around Blair's waist, carefully sizing it to the young man. Blair bit his lip, not sure he liked the feel of it. 

Next, Jim pulled out the gun he'd taken from Kincaid the day before. "Like I said," Jim said, placing the gun on the table, "in this part of the country, you should know how to use a gun, for your own safety and the safety of others. We'll start with how to take it apart, clean and load it." 

Blair stared at the gun in distaste, then sighed and reached for it. He didn't like the idea, but for Jim he'd do it. 

For Jim, he'd do anything, he realized with a start. How the hell had the man gotten under his skin so fast? Attraction was one thing, but this was... more. 

Blair closed his eyes and composed himself. He could worry about these feelings he had for the other man later. For now, he was going to learn how to use a gun. Not because he wanted to. Not even because he needed to. He was going to do it because Jim asked him to. 

* * *

The morning was spent learning all the parts of the gun; how they worked and how they fit together. Jim had him clean it inside and out until it shined. Then he was given step by step instructions on how to load and unload the gun. 

With the gun unloaded, he practiced drawing the gun from its holster in a smooth move. He would never be a quickdraw, Blair thought to himself, but at least he wouldn't shoot himself in the foot by having the gun get caught when he was trying to draw it. 

Finally, around mid-afternoon, Jim had Blair load the gun, and they headed outside. 

The salve Jim had used was doing its work. Blair could stand easily, and suffered only minor pains as he walked. He watched as Jim placed various targets onto a boulder, some distance away, then came back. 

"All right, now," Jim said. "Draw the gun and check it." Blair did as asked. "Now aim at the tin on the left side of the boulder, just like I showed you." 

Blair did so, and when Jim said to, he fired the gun. 

The shot went over high, over the top of the boulder, and the kickback of the gun drove Blair several steps backwards into Jim, who had stepped behind him. Jim held him steady as he regained his bearings. 

Finally, Blair stepped away from the man, feeling pangs of separation once they were no longer in physical contact. It had been a while since he'd been held rather than being the one to hold and he'd missed the feeling. It was comforting. 

"Sorry 'bout that," he mumbled, checking the gun to make sure it wouldn't go off unexpectedly. He was answered by a chuckle. 

"Don't worry. It happens to all of us the first time we fire a gun. You just need to learn from experience how much a gun will kick and adjust your aim to make up for it." 

"Sounds easier said than done," Blair groused, setting himself to fire again. He was very conscious of the warmth of Jim's body close behind him, ready to catch him again. 

"It just takes practice. Now aim and fire again." 

* * *

Kincaid watched from a small rise as Jaspar rode back to the camp. He'd sent the man into town to find out what he could about the three men Kincaid wanted. Jaspar had been sent since he was the only one who hadn't gone to town with them several days earlier. He'd been left outside of town to watch for trouble and to cover their escape if it had been necessary. Kincaid had waited before sending the man in to make sure that he wasn't associated with their visit. 

But the delay had eaten at him, making him even more shorttempered. He'd noticed his men avoiding him, and it amused him. He didn't mind being feared. Men were quick to obey when they feared their commander. However, he kept a careful eye to make sure that they didn't fear enough to try to sneak off in the night. 

"So what did you find out?" he drawled as Jaspar came up behind him. 

Jaspar was breathing heavily, and he took a quick gulp from a canteen before answering. "The guy who... umm... grabbed you, he's James Ellison. An ex-soldier. I couldn't find out where he lives." 

Kincaid finally looked at the man, and his expression made the worm cringe. "That's _it_?" 

"No!" Jaspar said quickly, practically quaking in his boots. "I heard he's been hired by some Easterner to be a guide or something. Wants to meet the local redskins, God only knows why. There's a village about ten miles from here." 

"Better," Kincaid said, not letting up. "Larabee and Tanner?" 

"In town. They ain't left since Tanner got back." 

Kincaid frowned. He didn't really want to have to pull the two out of a town of armed men. He didn't trust his own men to back him up at this point. "Any way to get them to _leave_ the town?" 

Jaspar smiled, a sickly, nervous smile. "Word is, Larabee and Tanner also got friends in that redskin village. They helped them when a troop of Confederate soldiers attacked them." 

Kincaid smiled; a cold expression. "Perfect," he said. "We can kill two birds with one stone, then." 

He climbed to his feet and slapped the dust from his pantlegs. "We take that village and wait for Ellison and his friend to show up. Once they've been taken care of, we send an invitation to Tanner and Larabee to join us." 

He waved towards the other men. "Saddle up, we're riding! Now," he turned to Jaspar. "I assume you found out just _where_ that village is?" 

He smiled an even colder smile when the man nodded. 

Just perfect. 

* * *

It was nearly a week before Jim decided that Blair's leg had healed enough to make the trip to the indian village. During that time they had fallen into an easy routine. 

They rose early in the morning, and Jim fed the animals while Blair prepared breakfast. The morning was given to target practice, and Blair often wondered at the amount of ammunition that Jim was willing to let him waste on targets. His skills were improving, though. He had learned to compensate for the kick of the handgun, and he was hitting the targets more often than not. After a few days, Jim had added the rifle to the lessons, and while the kick was even harder, Blair found it easier to aim with the length of the barrel to sight down. The only drawback to the rifle over the handgun was that it had to be reloaded after each firing. However, Jim said, it had a greater range than the six-shooter, and was worth the drawbacks as a result. 

Once the temperatures had risen to uncomfortable levels, they retreated to the cabin for the hottest hours of the day. There, Jim read or worked on equipment that needed repairs while Blair read his notes and started organizing information for the book he planned to write eventually. 

In a way it surprised him how quickly they'd become comfortable with each other. Jim answered any questions asked, although he'd said little about his family after that first night. Blair had the feeling that Jim Ellison was not a man who was comfortable talking about himself. However, he was delighted to find the man well educated and ready to debate just about any subject, and while they disagreed on a variety of subjects, their underlying philosophies were very compatible. 

And yet, just as comfortable were the silences, where they worked side by side without word. It was as if there were a deep recognition which said that words were not necessary, that they understood each other in all ways important. 

Blair had also found Jim to be a very tactile man, constantly touching things, examining their feel, their texture. Anything and everything, including Blair, much to his surprise. For some reason, it didn't bother him, though he usually didn't like being touched by people. Instead of shying away, he'd had to fight the instinct to lean into the touch for fear of looking foolish. 

But finally the day came when they were ready to set out. Jim packed a carrysack with enough food for several days. After all, it wouldn't do to show up at the village and expect to be fed. 

They set out early in the morning. Jim closed up everything, and loaded the carrysack onto the back of the mule. Unfortunately, the animal wasn't large enough to carry the both of them, and they didn't have a second animal to ride, so they would be walking. 

The terrain was rugged and dry. This time, Blair had his boots tied securely so that rocks wouldn't work their way inside, and strict orders not to keep silent if his feet started hurting. Out west, a man's feet were important, Jim had said. Without them, he was in big trouble. 

The hike over rough terrain took several hours, and it was just past lunch time when they got within sight of the village. 

Blair was concentrating so hard on his footing, and the fact that his legs were aching from unaccustomed amounts of walking, that he almost walked right into Jim. 

"What is it?" he asked, seeing the expression of intense concentration on the other man's face. For reasons he didn't quite understand, he lowered his voice. 

Jim stood like a statue, eyes focused in the distance. "Jim?" Blair asked again, laying a hand on the other man's arm. Jim shook himself out of whatever spell had affected him. 

"We're being watched," he said softly. "There are strangers in the village. Hostiles." 

Blair puzzled at that. "How can you tell from this distance?" 

"I can hear strange voices. Angry ones." 

Blair shook his head, but strangely enough, he believed the man. If Jim said that he could hear angry voices from this distance, then he could. Jim would not lie to him. 

Suddenly, Jim was a blur of motion. His gun came up and he fired. A scream answered his shot, then he hit Blair to the ground, covering the younger man's body with his own. 

Blair was trying to regain his breath pinned to the ground by a body much larger than his own. "Jim?" he gasped, trying to move. 

There was no answer. 

"Jim?" he cried, now worried. That was when he noticed the moisture slowly seeping through his shirt. 

The sound of footsteps finally pulled his attention from his worry about Jim. Craning his head, he saw a pair of boots. Following up the long length of leg, he found himself staring at an upside-down image of Garrett Kincaid. 

Without warning, the weight of Jim's body disappeared. 

"Is he dead?" Kincaid asked. Turning his head, Blair saw Jim in the hands of two of Kincaid's men, blood seeping from his right side. 

One of the men checked. "Not yet, sir. But he's in bad shape." 

"Good." Kincaid came over to Blair and crouched next to him. He reached down and pulled the gun from the gunbelt around Blair's waist. "I'll take that back," he snarled, then stood again. "Bring them." 

Kincaid turned and headed for the village. One of his men dragged Blair to his feet, and shooting pains told him that he'd broken at least two ribs in the fall. Still, he was able to walk on his own. Jim was being dragged between two men, and Blair had to bite his tongue to keep from protesting the way the man was being treated. Somehow, he didn't think that they would care. 

As they approached, the village looked empty. Then Blair heard sounds coming from one large building near the center of the village, one with two gunmen standing outside. That must be where the villagers had been imprisoned by Kincaid and his men. 

And in the open area in front of that building, a small cage had been erected. It looked extremely sturdy, and no doubt cramped for its expected use. Four feet by four feet by four feet. 

The cage door was opened, and Blair was shoved through. He hit the ground with a gasp, then braced himself as Jim's limp body was tossed in with him. Then the door was slammed shut and secured. 

Blair immediately man-handled Jim into a reclining position, leaning against Blair who sat behind him leaning against the cage. The structure shook, but showed no inclination to come apart. Ignoring it for the time being, Blair unbuttoned Jim's shirt and pulled it off the man, then pulled up the under-shirt to expose the wound. 

It wasn't as bad as he'd feared. It had bled a great deal, but it didn't look to have hit any critical areas. The bullet had passed cleanly through Jim's side, just below his lowest ribs. For lack of anything better to use, Blair wadded up the dusty shirt, inside out, and pressed it against the still-bleeding wound. It wasn't a good bandage, but it would do for the moment. It would _have_ to do. 

Blair looked up as Kincaid came towards the cage, a young boy not more than ten dragged along by the grip on his arm. They stopped in front of the cage. 

"See that?" Kincaid said, pushing the terrified kid towards the cage. "I hope you can run fast, boy, cause if Vin Tanner and Chris Larabee aren't here before sundown, these two are gonna die. And after that, the rest of the people in the poor excuse of a villager are gonna die too." 

The kid just shook his head in confusion, his eyes locked on Blair's. 

Kincaid yanked him away by his hair. "You get yer ass to Four Corners and tell Tanner. Now _run_!" 

He shoved the boy towards the path into town, and the kid stumbled. A few of Kincaid's men hooted in derision, but Blair watched silently as he got to his feet and started running, the mile-chewing, loping run that he'd seen other natives use. Despite the heat, he figured that the kid would make it to town in plenty of time. 

But plenty of time for what? 

Kincaid was back outside the cage, smirking down at Blair and Jim. Jim groaned and shifted, but he didn't wake. 

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," Kincaid said in mock sympathy. "That don't look good." 

Blair glared back at him. "Any chance of water?" he asked, not expecting an affirmative. 

"Be a waste," Kincaid said, shaking his head. "Considering you'll both be dead by morning, one way or another." He moved around the cage, and suddenly lashed out with a foot, kicking Jim through the bars of the cage. Blair immediately moved to shield the injured man, his heart torn by the unconscious cry of pain. Kincaid just smiled. "Now ain't that sweet. But the bastard's going to get exactly what's coming to him. He shouldn't've stuck his nose where it don't belong." 

Blair stared at him in confusion. "What?" he said in disbelief. "You mean this is because he stopped you from shooting Larabee? Are you crazy?" 

A hand darted through the bars, grabbing his hair and pulling his head against the bars. A knife appeared in Kincaid's other hand and pressed against Blair's throat. "You watch your tongue," Kincaid hissed in his ear. "You can die easy or you can die hard, boy. Up to you." 

As quickly as Blair had been grabbed, he was released, and he slumped forward, breathing hard and rubbing his neck. He was a little surprised when his hand came away free of any fresh blood, although there were brown stains from Jim's blood. 

Kincaid walked away, heading for one of the small buildings that made up the village. He paused briefly to whisper in the ear of one of his men. The man smiled, and Kincaid slapped him on the shoulder before disappearing from view. The man settled into a chair in the shade of the building, his gun over his knees and his eyes on the two men in the cage. 

"He gone?" 

Blair almost jumped at the hoarse whisper, then relaxed backwards. "Yeah," he whispered back. Looking down, he found Jim's eyes cracked open. "How do you feel?" 

Jim shifted imperceptibly, then hissed. "Not good," he admitted. 

"What do we do?" 

Blair waited for Jim to speak, hoping for a brilliant plan that would save them and everyone else, even though he knew it wasn't possible. "Wait for now," Jim finally replied. "I know Larabee. He won't come without a plan, or backup. Until then, we hold tight." 

Blair didn't like it, but it wasn't like they had a chance. Settling into a more comfortable position, he pulled his hat lower and made sure that he was shading Jim as best as possible. It was going to be a long, hot wait for sunset, he thought, looking up at the clear blue sky, and without shade, they weren't going to be in good shape when help came. 

Assuming it did. 

* * *

Larabee was enjoying a drink before dinner after a long day when a commotion outside the saloon got his attention. His head came up at the shouts, and he got to his feet when a young indian boy came stumbling through the door. 

"Billy!" he called out, recognizing the kid. Billy started to collapse, but Chris managed to catch him first. He could hear Vin calling for someone to get Nathan, but his attention was focused on the kid. 

Billy was in bad shape. His moccasins were ripped, and he could see blood on the flesh they hid. He was breathing hard, and his eyes were glazed with fatigue. 

"What's wrong, Billy,?" he asked as the kid's breathing started to ease. "You look like you ran the whole distance to town." 

"Did," Billy gasped. "White men... Attacked... Got Mr. Ellison and... another white man... in a cage." 

The bartender handed over a glass of ale, and Chris held it steady while the boy gulped from it. When he waved it away, his voice was steadier. 

"Mr. Ellison's been shot. The guy in charge said that if you and Mr. Tanner don't come before sunset, he's gonna kill everyone." 

Chris looked up at Vic in horror. "Kincaid?" he asked, already knowing the answer. 

"Has to be," Vin said grimly, checking his guns. "Stay here." 

Chris quickly handed Billy over to one of the barmaids and headed after Vin. He caught up with the man before he could reach the horses, and grabbed him by the arm. "What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" he snarled as Vin tried to pull free. 

"You heard him..." Vin started to say. 

"Damn right I heard him. Kincaid has a village as hostage, and he wants _both_ of us. We've got time, so let's _use_ it, damnit." 

"But..." 

"But nothing. If you go running off without a plan, he'll kill you, then kill Ellison and the others, then still come after me. We need a plan before _we_ go." 

Vin shook his head, but Chris refused to let go. In a case like this, Vin would present himself on a platter, for all the good it would do him, and Chris wasn't going to let him. Turning, he found Nathan watching them. 

"Get the others," he said. "We got some planning to do." 

* * *

By late afternoon, Blair was beginning to worry. Jim had lapsed into unconsciousness after a couple of hours in the cage, and he was muttering, moving restlessly as if in a delirium. Blair had moved his hat to the other man's head to give him some small protection from the sun, and bent over him to provide more shade with his own body. It wasn't much, but at least he felt like he was doing something. 

There hadn't been much else he could do. Guards made sure that they didn't try to leave the cage, and all requests for water had been met with laughter. Jim's wound had stopped bleeding, but the man was pale from blood loss and sweating from fever. Probing the wound, Blair feared infection. 

To distract himself, Blair went over his notes in his mind. His books and papers were still strapped to the back of the mule, and he had no idea where the animal might be. Kincaid and his men had left it to wander when they'd taken Jim and Blair. Blair felt pangs at the loss, even though there didn't seem much chance of them coming out alive so that he could do anything with them. 

But he had a good memory, and he passed the time going over notes and letters. It was then that a bit of memory flared up, calling his attention. 

Before he'd left for the United States, he'd received a letter from his mentor, Burton. The anthropologist had traveled to South America in sixty-four to take a consular appointment in Brazil. In sixty-eight, he'd fallen ill, and during his recovery he'd elected to do some traveling. He'd written Blair about his visits to Paraguay, Chile and Peru, describing the land and the fauna and the people. 

During his time in Peru, he'd spent a month with a tribe called the Chopec. This tribe had done well in protecting themselves from the advances of European settlers, and Burton had attributed it to two members of the tribe, a shaman named Incacha and his partner, Enqueri. Burton had written that the man Enqueri had exceptional hearing, making him valuable as a protector and as a hunter. In fact, he'd been addressed by a title that translated roughly as Watchman, or Sentinel. He'd been told that the man's other senses were equally strong, but the only one he'd been able to verify was the hearing. 

Remembering the letter, Blair was amazed at how much of what Burton had described matched Jim as well, and he wished that he had the letter there to read in greater depth. 

The sun was creeping down towards the horizon by the time Kincaid reappeared. His men were also collecting around the edges of the open area where the cage stood. Kincaid stepped forward, eyes on the trail into the village. 

"Looks like they ain't coming," he said, his hand caressing the butt of his gun. "Guess I don't need either of you anymore." 

With a cold smile, Kincaid pulled the gun from the holster and took slow, deliberate aim at Blair's head. Blair stared back at him, still not quite comprehending what the man intended to do. He found it unbelievable that the man would casually murder them over such a small incident. 

But before he could fully absorb the fact that he was about to die, a shout came from the rise next to the village. "Two riders coming this way!" 

Immediately, Kincaid lost interest. He turned away, already sticking his gun back in its holster. "Is it them?" 

"Looks like" 

Kincaid's men started drifting towards the buildings to either side of the trail, guns held at the ready. Blair squinted, trying to see in the fading lights. 

When the two men road into view, he could see that one of them was the man who'd faced Kincaid down before, Chris Larabee. The man riding next to him looked a year or two younger, and instead of short-cropped, his hair was almost as long as Blair's and almost as curly, though not quite as thick. 

"Well, well, well," Kincaid said as the two men dismounted. "I didn't think you'd have the guts to show up, Tanner." 

"Drop it, Kincaid," the other man -- Vin Tanner -- said. "You haven't changed a bit, have you. Threatening innocents to get your own way. No wonder even your own parents were glad to see you leave." 

Kincaid snarled and took a step forward, already reaching for his gun. Then he paused, visibly collecting himself. "No," he said, stepping back again. "You won't get _that_ quick a death. You're gonna pay for killing Jess, and you'll do it with a slow, painful death." 

"I didn't kill him," Tanner said, shaking his head. "And killing me won't bring him back." 

"Maybe not, but it'll make _me_ feel a hell of a lot better," Kincaid said with a sneer. "And drop the story about someone else doing it. I didn't believe him," he said, waving at Larabee, "and I sure as hell don't believe you. You were always after what Jess had. Maybe you just thought this was how to get it." 

"Jess didn't have anything I wanted," was the calm reply. "I hadn't seen him in years. The only reason I was anywhere near Tuscosa was cause I was hunting a man called Eli Joe. That _is_ what a bounty hunter does, you know. Eli killed your brother and framed me, just to get me off his trail. Doubt he even knew I knew Jess." 

"Well, maybe it's true and maybe it ain't. Don't much matter to me. Either way, it's still your fault that he's dead, and you're the one who's going to pay." He turned to look at his men. "You and you," he said with a wave. "Tie them up." 

He turned back to the two men facing him down. "I intend to have some fun before I kill the two of you." 

"What about the hostages?" Larabee asked. "You got us, let them go." 

Kincaid laughed at that. Blair had a sinking feeling at the sound. "All I said was that they would die if you didn't show up. I didn't say anything about letting them go." 

Instead of pulling his gun again, Kincaid drew a long knife from a sheath tucked into his boot. He stepped forward and waved the knife in the air in front of Tanner's eyes, like a coiled snake preparing to strike. "I ain't leaving anyone alive to tell the tale. And believe me, I'm gonna save you for last." 

"Garrett, you can't be serious!?" one of Kincaid's men called out in disbelief. 

Kincaid spun, and the hilt of his knife appeared in the man's chest, as if by magic. " _Nobody_ talks back to Garrett Kincaid," he shouted at the others. "Nobody!" 

The rest of his men looked frozen, but none seemed inclined to disagree. Two had grabbed Larabee and Tanner and were pulling them towards where two posts stood. Blair glanced around, and noted that no one was watching them. 

The dead man had fallen very near the cage he and Jim were locked in. With a little luck, he'd be able to reach the man's gun without attracting any attention. Larabee and Tanner hadn't been relieved of their guns, and with one of his men dead, Kincaid only had five others, by Blair's count. Three against six wasn't _too_ bad. 

Assuming he could bring himself to actually shoot a man. 

Next to him, Jim shifted, and moaned in pain. Blair hardened his heart. Kincaid was a mad dog that needed to be put down before he killed anyone else, and if his men weren't willing to stop him, they would have to take what they got as well. 

Blair lay down flat on the ground and reached between the bars, straining towards the dead man. He touched the man's leg, but the gunbelt was just out of reach. Blair gulped, then grabbed the loose fabric of the man's pants, hoping that they were sturdy, and pulled. 

Inch by careful inch, he pulled the body towards himself, constantly checking to see if he'd been noticed. Finally, the body was close enough, and he gingerly pulled the man's gun from its holster. He pulled his arm back into the cage and hid the gun underneath of his body while he checked to make sure that it was loaded properly. 

Then he waited for an opening. 

* * *

"Well, well, well. Looks like the scholar has some smarts that don't come from a book," Josiah said from his position next to Buck. Down below, they could see the young man pulling the gun from the body of one of Kincaid's men. 

"Yeah, well let's hope he doesn't do anything stupid with that," Buck replied. 

"Everyone in place?" 

Buck took a look around. JD and Ezra were just barely in sight, on the other side of the village. Nathan was settled in near the trail into the village, and with a steep incline behind the village, no one was getting out that way. 

Kincaid's men had been watching for two riders coming along the main trail from Four Corners. That was why they hadn't noticed five men coming from the round-about way at the back of the village. 

"Yep. Ready to go." 

"Wait for Chris to make his move." 

"Right." 

* * *

Kincaid, his men and their two prisoners had just reached the posts, but nothing more, when all hell broke loose. 

A shot took out the man holding Larabee, and a second shot took the knee of the man holding Tanner. The two men prompt dropped to the ground and rolled behind a nearby horsetrough for the limited cover it offered. Kincaid and his remaining four men were also moving for cover. Blair watched as they ducked through open doorways into several of the village's small homes. 

In the middle of the open space between buildings, Blair covered Jim, hoping that a stray shot didn't come their way. In his right hand he held the purloined six-shooter, fully loaded and ready to fire. He just had to pick his time and target. 

"Give up, Kincaid!" a voice shouted from behind a building. Glancing in that direction, Blair thought he saw two men peeking around the corner of the small structure, checking the lay of the land. 

"I don't think so!" Kincaid called back. "In fact, why don't you give up? You don't, and I'll start killing redskins and niggers." 

"You'll just get yourself in bigger trouble that way. Judge Travis will be here by morning, so unless you want to be hung for murder..." 

"It ain't murder, it's a public service. They should be wiped out anyway. Them and Tanner," he added with a snarl. 

Silence answered him. Kincaid waved towards his men and they started moving, looking for a way to get at the men who had them pinned down. Then he turned his eyes on the cage sitting out in the open, and he smiled. 

"And if you don't care about the primitives, think about this. You don't have a clear shot at me, or you would have taken it already. But I have a clear shot at Ellison and his little friend, so unless you want to see _them_ bleed to death, you'll show yourselves now!" 

Blair sucked in a deep breath. From his point of view, he was starting directly down the barrel of Kincaid's gun, the same one Jim had used to teach him how to shoot. 

But what Kincaid couldn't see was the gun in _his_ hand. While everyone waited breathless to see who would move first, Blair sat up, carefully keeping the gun out of Kincaid's field of view. Kincaid's grin just got wider as Blair provided him with an easier target. 

There was a shot, and he could see the impact several feet from Kincaid, but the man didn't even flinch. He knew that no one could hit him in the doorway he'd wedged himself into, so he didn't care if they shot him. 

Blair closed his eyes and breathed a small prayer, apologizing to God for what he was about to do and to offer his soul up into the hands of the Divine. 

Then he raised the gun, aimed and fired, all in one smooth motion. 

* * *

After Kincaid's death, his remaining men lost heart and quickly surrendered. They were tied up and locked inside the same building that they'd used for the village people. Chris found it fitting. Soon as possible, they'd be transported back to Four Corners to wait for Judge Travis to arrive and pass judgment. 

Ellison was in bad shape. The gunshot wound wasn't bad, but the time spent locked in the sun without a doctor had left him fevered and the wound starting to turn. Nathan, the slave turned healer, had carefully cut the dying flesh from the wound, and the indian shaman had covered it with a poultice and wrapped it with clean bandages. 

"How's he doing?" Chris asked the two men as they left the shaman's tiny home. 

Nathan shook his head. "Too early to tell. If the fever breaks he should be fine, though he's gonna hurt for a while. But until then..." He shrugged. 

"He will recover, Mr. Larabee," the shaman said. "He and his companion will stay here, and we will take care of them until they heal." 

"They?" Tanner said, coming up next to Chris. "I though the other one wasn't hurt." 

"Not in body, perhaps," the man replied. "But for a man who has never killed before, nor wanted to kill..." His voice trailed off. 

"First time's always the hardest," Chris said, trying not to remember the first time he'd killed another man in cold blood. He remembered the dazed look in the scholar's eyes when they'd torn the cage apart to get the two men out. If he had to describe the expression, he'd have to call it loss of innocence. 

The shaman nodded. "And for a man of peace, harder still. He needs time to deal with what he had to do. In time, his spirit will repair itself." 

Chris nodded. "All right, then. We'll take Kincaid's men back to Four Corners for the Judge. Ellison and Sandburg stay here. If the Judge has any questions for them, we'll bring him." 

"We will be glad to see the last of _them_ ," a large black man said, coming up to the group. Under his dark skin, Chris could see darker bruises. The side of his face was swollen and his wrists were bandaged where they'd been tied together tightly when he and the others had been cut loose. 

"Well," Chris said, looking up at the star-filled sky, "if you don't mind, we'll camp here the night, then set out in the morning." 

The shaman nodded. "You are welcome in our homes," he said formally. 

"Thanks." 

Kincaid hadn't left much intact, but the villagers managed to put together a fine meal for their rescuers, and Chris vowed to get them some supplies to replace the ones destroyed. Even though Kincaid had been nuts, Chris still felt guilty. Kincaid had taken the village as part of a plan to kill three men, one of them being him, and he couldn't help feeling responsible. 

After the meal, he'd grabbed a blanket and slipped between buildings and up the rise behind the village. At the top, looking down at the bonfire in the middle of the village, in the same place the cage had stood, he spread out the blanket and sat down to wait. He didn't have to wait long. 

Two strong arms came around his chest and a chin landed on his shoulder. "Moon's coming up," a husky voice whispered in his ear. 

Chris shivered deliciously. "Gonna make me howl, lover?" he asked mischievously. 

"Count on it." 

Vin's hands started moving, quickly stripping him down to bare skin and pressing him down onto the blanket. The coarse weave scratched his back, but he was too distracted by the hot bulk of his lover pressing against his front to care. 

Vin was in a fierce mood too. He moved aggressively against Chris, growling low in his throat. Chris grinned and arched his head back, baring his neck. Vin latched onto it, nibbling and sucking and kissing. He'd have to wear a kerchief round his neck come morning to cover the marks, he knew. Chris didn't much care. 

Instead he lay there and let his lover take control. They'd counted on Kincaid wanting to play with them before killing them, and they'd been right. But if they'd been wrong, he could have had them shot before they'd even gotten off their horses. They'd faced death that day. Now they celebrated life. Chris gave and Vin took, giving in return as a result. 

They loved. 

When they were done, they pulled their long underwear back on, but left the rest of their clothes where they were. They curled around each other, looking up at the stars. Down below, the fire was dying down to glowing embers. 

"Saw Buck and JD sneakin' off earlier," Chris said in tones of sleepy satiation. 

Vin grinned. "Good for them," he said, then nipped Chris's ear. "First time?" 

"Think so." 

Vin chuckled, and Chris shivered happily at the sound. Sometimes it amazed him that after protecting his heart for so long, since the death of his wife and son in the fire, he had turned around one day to find that the walls had been torn down and the empty places filled again. Filled by a man, of all things. Vin had been gentle with his long suppressed emotions and man-sex virginity. Chris could no longer imagine life without Vin there, and he'd kill anyone who tried to separate them. 

"What's so funny?" he asked. 

"Just, Buck's in for a surprise, if I don't miss my guess." 

"Huh?" Chris asked, a little confused. 

"I doubt our little sheriff's as innocent as everyone thinks he is." 

Chris turned his head to look at Vin. "You're joking," he said. 

Just them, a passionate cry could be heard faintly, and it sounded shocked. 

"Nope," Vin said with a grin. 

They both chuckled then, and settled down to sleep under the watchful gaze of the stars. 

* * *

Jim slept uneasily, but he did sleep. Through the night and all of the next day. Through it all, Blair refused to leave his side. He ate when food was brought to him and he slept uneasily when he could not stay awake any longer, but he refused to leave. He'd killed for this man and feared that if he left, Jim might die, making his act one of futility. 

The mule had been found, and his books and writing materials had been brought to him, but he couldn't concentrate enough for them to be of use. Instead he sat and watched Jim breathe. 

Someone entered the one-room home, but he didn't look to see who it was. His eyes stayed on Jim's face even when a hand came to rest on his shoulder. 

"He will live, young one." 

Blair recognized the voice of the village shaman. This was the man he'd come to meet, but his mind was empty of questions. It was empty of everything. 

Moving slowly with joints creaking, the shaman sat down next to him. "Why did you come here?" he asked once his legs were folded into a comfortable position. 

Blair thought for a moment, his mind moving slowly, but moving. "To learn about your people," he finally said. 

"No, young one. Why did you come _here_?" 

Blair thought about the question. "Because Clear Eyes said I should," he finally said, more question than statement. 

"Why?" 

"He... he said it was important I come here." 

"Why?" 

Blair blinked in confusion. How could he possible know why? The Lakota shaman hadn't said. Then he thought about it. 

What had happened since he'd arrived? What had already changed his life in ways he'd never expected? What had become so important to him that he would do anything -- kill, even -- for? 

"Jim," he finally whispered. "He sent me to meet Jim." 

He hazarded a quick look at his companion's face. The shaman was smiling. "Very good, young wolf," he said in a pleased tone. 

"Clear Eyes called me that," Blair said uncertainly. 

"Because like his name says, his eyes are clear. The wolf runs next to you. But wolves are pack animals, they are not meant to run alone. Your hunt has not been for knowledge, but for the one you are meant to run _with_." 

"Jim," Blair said again, his voice slowly filling with wonder. His eyes returned to Jim's face, tracing the lines of pain and sorrow, but also lines of joy. A handsome face that was transcendent when he smiled, and Blair wanted very much to see him smile again. For many years to come. 

A leathery hand brushed his cheek, where a heavy beard was growing. He should shave, he thought briefly. 

"Yes, young one. You came here for him. You also came here to be trained." 

Blair frowned. "Trained? I don't understand." 

"Yes you do. The panther runs with the wolf. The Watchman walks with his shaman." 

"Sentinel..." Blair breathed. He'd already accepted that Jim's hearing was sensitive, and he'd thought of what Burton had written to him about, but he hadn't thought that Jim was actually a full Sentinel. What would Burton think when he wrote him about this? 

Then he froze. No, he wouldn't tell his mentor. While Burton would be fascinated, he would also tell others. And once people knew, their appetite for the strange would have them hunting Jim down. He'd be put on display, like a freak in one of those traveling shows he'd seen. He knew enough about Jim already to know that that would kill the private man. 

The shaman smiled, almost as if he could read Blair's thoughts. "Yes. I helped him learn control when he came to us, still hurting from his losses, his war wounds. But I was not the one for him. He has been waiting for you, even if he does not fully realize it yet. He needs you, but only if you can commit to him fully. Promise to stay with him always." 

Blair gulped slightly. He was being asked to give up his life as it had been up to this point. 

Then he firmed his resolve. His mother was dead, and he'd never known his father. His mother's family barely tolerated him, and he had no close ties to anyone. He still wanted to write his book, but that could be done here as easily as anywhere else. Perhaps he could even convince Jim to travel with him. Maybe even to Peru to meet the Chopec that Burton had written of. 

As he thought, Blair's spirits lifted. The shaman was right. Clear Eyes was right. This was where he was supposed to be. With Jim. 

"I promise," he said, his voice firm and strong. He reached out and grasped Jim's limp hand. 

The shaman moved his hand to rest on the intertwined hands of Jim and Blair. "It is a good bonding," he said, then slowly climbed to his feet and left. 

Blair watched him go, still holding onto Jim's hand. His decision made, he felt stronger, lighter than he had in a long time. He looked down at Jim, and brushed a hand across the man's damp forehead. Already, he could feel the fever heat leaving the flesh. Jim sighed in his sleep, and turned his head slightly towards Blair. 

For a moment, he felt doubt. What if Jim didn't want him to stay, he wondered. Then he smiled. If Jim tried to send him away, it wouldn't matter. He was staying, even if he had to camp near his cabin and stalk the man. He was _not_ going to be chased away. Ever. 

Suddenly feeling exhausted, Blair eyed the slightly raised pallet Jim was lying on. There was room for two, if they lay close together. Smiling, he released Jim's hand long enough to pull off his boots, then settled down next to Jim, reaching over to take the man's hand again. Avoiding Jim's injury, Blair laid his head on Jim's chest, smiling as he listened to the man's heart beat, slow and steady. 

After a few short minutes, he let the sound lull him to sleep. 

* * *

Blair woke the next morning well rested. He vaguely remembered dreams of a wolf and a panther running side-byside through heavy greenery, and the image filled him with joy. Moving slowly, he turned to see Jim looking down at him, a puzzled expression on his face. 

"Kincaid?" the man said hoarsely. 

Glancing around, Blair found a jug of water and a cup waiting on a table next to the bed. He poured some into the cup and held it for Jim to sip. "Dead," he finally said in answer to the question. "I... I shot him." 

Jim winced, and raised a hand to brush back Blair's hair. "Sorry," he said. 

"Don't be," Blair hurried to assure him. "He was going to kill you, me, everyone in the village, Larabee, Tanner and the men with them. He was insane." 

"I'm still sorry you had to do it. I taught you to shoot, but I truly hoped you would never need to." 

Blair shrugged. "And I hope I never have to again. But if I'm going to stay out here, I guess I can't be sure of that." 

Jim's expression froze. "Stay?" 

Blair turned to look at the wall. "If you don't mind have an opinionated Eastern professor hanging around. I mean..." He paused. 

"How long?" 

He turned back to look at Jim. The man's face was completely blank, as if he were trying to hide something. Blair took a deep breath. "Forever, if you'll let me," he said, then held his breath. 

Jim's eyes bored into him, examining him in minute detail. Blair held himself firm, reminding himself of his choice. Finally, Jim's expression softened into a small smile. "Forever, huh?" 

Blair nodded. "Yep." 

"Good." 

Jim's hand was still absent-mindedly combing through Blair's hair. It stopped, and gripped a handful of curls. Tugging gently, Jim pulled Blair's head down towards him. Blair's breath shortened and his heart began to pound. As he drew near, his eyes fluttered shut and his lips parted slightly, just before they met with Jim's 

The kiss was soft and oh, so gentle. Just a press of lips against lips. Then Blair groaned and twisted his head to the side, reaching out with his tongue to taste Jim's mouth and meeting Jim's tongue halfway. The two slid against each other in a dance as old as man. 

Finally, a need to breathe force Blair to pull back. Jim tried to follow him, but gave a small cry and fell back with a pained expression. Feeling guilty for causing Jim pain, Blair stroked his face, soothing the lines of pain away. 

"Not yet," he whispered, his throat thick with emotion. "Once you've healed. After all, we have all the time in the world." 

Jim smiled at that. "Yes. We do." 

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

Blair opened the doors to the cabin, wincing at the amount of dust and dirt that had collected during their absence. They would have to do a lot of cleaning before the building was fit for habitation. But that was no problem. They enjoyed sleeping under the stars, no matter where they were. 

Behind him, Jim came in carrying the first of their bags. "I put together a temporary corral for the horses," he said, putting the bags on top of the table. He looked around, noting that animals had gotten in while they were gone and had built a nest in the corner. "I guess we'll be making a bed in the back of the wagon," he said wryly, wrinkling his nose in an expression of disgust. 

Blair laughed. "What did you expect after being gone for almost two years?" he teased. "Pristine condition?" 

Jim shrugged. "We have been gone for a long time, haven't we?" 

"Yeah, but it was worth it, wasn't it?" 

"Yep," Jim replied with a bright smile. 

There were a few more lines around his eyes and mouth than had been there when they had met, nearly six years earlier, but Blair never noticed them. Jim was still Jim, and that was all that mattered. He'd been months healing from the gunshot wound and mishandling he'd received from Kincaid's men before they could go home. By that point, Blair could barely remember a time when he _hadn't_ been a part of Jim's life and Jim a part of his. 

"Check to make sure the pantry is still intact, then start putting away the supplies," Blair ordered, grabbing the broom he'd brought in with him to get started cleaning. Mentally, he was planning where the extra shelves would go. He'd acquired quite a few extra books during their travels, and he would need someplace to put them. As well, he had a ton of notes, and would need storage space for them while he worked on his next book. He hadn't decided yet if it would be a scholarly volume or an adventure novel first. Probably the novel. They could use the money. 

"Whatever you say, Chief," Jim said with a grin, then ducked the swat that Blair aimed at him with the broom. 

"Shaman, not Chief," Blair said, going along with the familiar ritual. 

"Whatever you say." 

Jim disappeared outdoors, and Blair paused a moment before starting to sweep. Even though they'd left for two years to travel to South America, the cabin still said home to him. Peru, the Chopec, the ruins: All had been fascinating to him, both as an anthropologist and as a Sentinel's shaman. They'd even gotten to meet the two Burton had written about; Enqueri and Incacha. They'd learned a lot from their Chopec counterparts. But he was still glad to be back. 

He attacked the blown-in dirt with a vengeance, evicting a family of mice as he worked. He was merciless. They were not going to share they're home with anything four-footed unless it barked or purred. The double-bed platform stood bare, but they had a mattress in the back of the wagon they'd bought -- along with horses to pull it -- in California when they'd gotten off the ship from Peru. As soon as the cabin aired out, they would move it in. 

By the time the sun was going down, the cabin was mostly clean, needing only fresh air to get rid of the musty smell, and Jim had a stew simmering over the fire they'd built outside. In the morning they would travel to Four Corners to say hi to old friends and see what had changed while they were gone, but tonight was all theirs. 

Throughout dinner, Blair caught the heated glances Jim was throwing his way. They'd basically had to be celibate since leaving Peru. On board ship there was no privacy, and up until two days ago, they'd been traveling with a wagontrain where they didn't dare attract the wrong sort of attention. After leaving the train, they'd traveled hard, deciding to get home as quickly as possible, rather than lingering on the trail. 

The dishes were put aside to soak, and the fire was banked for the night. Then Jim turned on Blair with a gleam in his eye, which was met with a gleam just as bright. 

Laughing, they stripped and ran for the wagon. The bed had been made earlier and was waiting for them, and they hit it, laughing again as the wagon creaked under the impact of their weight. Blair grinned up at Jim as the older man rubbed a hand over his cheek, tugging gently at the beard growing there. "You're going to shave that now that we're home, aren't you?" he mock-growled. 

"Maybe," Blair teased, even though he had no intention of keeping the beard now that he would have time to shave. 

Jim rolled over on top of him. "You better," he said, nuzzling at Blair's neck. He pulled back and grinned. "I'm getting tired of beard-burn on my lips," he said. 

Blair sighed. "Well, I suppose I must, then. I wouldn't want you to lose use of those lips, especially when I enjoy their use so much." 

"Good," Jim said, lowering himself down onto his mate. Their lips met, and they dueled with their tongues, enjoying the flavors that were so familiar after all the years. 

Their love-making was slow and easy, missing the awkwardness of their first joining. Blair had known nothing except that he wanted it, whatever "it" was. Jim'd had a little more experience, but not much. Still, they'd learned together, and in time it had been very good and very satisfying. 

They were both too tired for anything too strenuous, so they satisfied themselves with an exchange of mouths and hands, bringing each other to sweet completion, then settled under the blankets, promising themselves baths in the nearby river before traveling to town the next day. 

Jim wrapped his arms around Blair and sighed, a happy sound. "It's good to be home, Chief," he said softly, looking towards the cabin. 

"Yeah," Blair said, thinking of all the places he'd lived in his life. He'd seen so much of the world before finding his true home. 

He'd heard someone say once that home was where the heart was. For him, home was Jim Ellison. 

Blair relaxed, and closed his eyes for sleep. He was home. 

**THE END**

* * *

End A Magnificent Obsession by Lianne: lburwell@adan.kingston.net

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Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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